Meet The Tooth Fairy

If you haven't picked it up yet, I'll be blunt: I fucking love gay men. I know this is a sweeping generalization and could probably be read as an offensive stereotype (um... mostly by people just looking to be offended at something), but here's the thing: I - and lots of Susies out there - really enjoy both:

a) male company
b) not getting hit on

Where does a Susie find this combination? If you're immune to potential wife-drama you can find the rare Honest Married Man-Friend (a.k.a. Magically-Rare Unicorn), or if not: ze gays. Love it or leave it alone - I heart Billies. (To be fair, because of an affinity for Roller Derby, my social circle also happens to include a fair number of Suzzys, if you know what I mean, and they're all pretty rad too).

(Everyone should have one.)

So, possibly because I missed the cohabitation magic that was living with Billie Beautiful, when I moved into a larger house in West Billy Beach, I set out to find myself a new Billie housemate. I threw a very non-orientation-specific ad out on Craigslist, and then skimmed the shit out of all the respondents for telltale signs that they were the right gay for me. It came down to two final candidates - a fashionably-bespectacled cubano male lactation aide at the nearby hospital, and a young dental student with a dazzling smile.

I met the Milk Man out for drinks with my girlfriend Liz, who gave him tentative approval based on his well-groomed facial hair and polite-with-an-edge sass. He really did have the sort of personality-plus that sets you at ease instantly (as you might imagine a dude tasked with helping new mothers learn to nurse would need). But, in the interest of fairness and a widely-cast net, I forwarded the Tooth Fairy's initial-inquiry email to Punchin' Judy, since he had seen fit to attach a photo of himself and OK fine, I mostly just wanted to rub Judy's face in all the beautiful gay impending in my life.

The Tooth Fairy was not a broadcast-Billie, but he won out because swagger. I sort of last-minute texted him about meeting up for a happy-hour beer, and within 30 minutes he was there (the location of the house made it a ridiculously easy sell for me, and a tight market for anyone looking), striding up with a half-smirk, the sun backlighting him in gay golden glory. Some pertinent details:

• Carefully-carelessly mussed/styled hair? Check.
• Casual v-neck of precisely-appropriate male plunge? Check.
• Perfectly-unfittedly-fitted designer jeans worn at the exact correct hipbone/abs v-muscle-thingie height? Check.
• Top-brand wayfarers accentuating ridiculously blessed facial bone structure? Check.
• Lip-bite-inducing 3-day stubble? Check.
• Fucking knee-bucklingly brilliant smile? Check.
• Immediately comfortable, non-flamboyant, non-lady-killer Billie vibe? CHECK.

(I played it coooool.)

The Tooth Fairy was in. He got the part on the spot, and signed the lease the next day.

Within the first few weeks, here is where our housemateship went:

The Tooth Fairy, highly interested in his physique (duh), instituted household P90X yoga days, where we sweated it out side-by-side on our living room hardwood.

He joined me (shirtless) for runs along our neighborhood shoreline, during which if I dropped back a few paces I could easily have been following an already-airbrushed Men's Health cover-photo.

We went to go lay out in the downtown park together, just suntanning and mocking the poor fashion parading past on any given Sunday.

He called on his way home from the dental office to see about dinner plans, and then we'd make something stupid-amounts of healthy together, like baked salmon and quinoa or garlic-sauteed shrimp on avocado salads.

We went grocery shopping together, like taking-turns-pushing-the-cart, jointly-choosing-ingredients shopping together.

We had co-kitcheneering adventure nights where we did Betty Crocker shit like canning the fruit from our backyard tree or making it into pies.

We made it a mission for him to master one new mixed drink a week from my bartending library, which included downing a semi-obscene amount of practice rounds.

We cracked wine and then sat on our front steps cracking each other up in the evenings.

I started teaching him guitar chords and we'd duet whatever song he was trying to tackle together.

We made coffee and drank it in the sun on our porch swing before parting ways in the mornings, me in my office skirts and heels, him in his scrubs (gah *swoon*) and trendy sneaks.

Even his sense of humor, which was just downright messed up, meshed with mine like twisted peas and carrots, people. Except for the fact that he was gay, it was maybe the most perfect turn-key relationship ever. In fact, it was a damn good thing he was gay, because - let's be honest here - otherwise I would surely already be shamelessly gunning for his bedroom and making everything all kinds of yearlong-lease-hell awkward.

And then, one happy-hour as I was gushing about all this new-found faux domestic bliss to Liz, a slightly suspicious look crossed her face.

"Susie, did you do any sort of background check on him or anything?"

I had not. "But seriously, Liz, I would *special-order* this Billie if he hadn't delivered himself."

"You should at least Google him," Liz countered, one eyebrow up over her half-raised martini-rita glass. And she had a point.

So, later that evening while the Tooth Fairy was at the gym, I threw his full name into quotes and hit "search." And discovered that the Tooth Fairy wasn't just an aspiring dentist with an incidentally-nice waist-to-shoulder ratio.

He was a legit. Male. Model.

(Guess who?!)

He had never breathed word one about this facet of his income - which, per his online agency profile and general related image-search results, was clearly ongoing! Which baffled me a little bit, because come on! You're a freaking model, Billie? Out with it!!

I waited until we were half a bottle of Syrah and at least an hour of Ella Fitzgerald into the night before slyly bringing up that I might have found something pertaining to him online. Immediately, his eyes rolled, he sighed heavily and dropped his head to his hand, middle finger and thumb spread temple-to-temple, shielding his eyes.

He was... embarrassed? Waitwhat?

"It's just that people automatically assume that model equals gay."

Well yeah. I mean of course, you're a male mod--wait. WHAT??

(Well now this... is... awkward.)

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh NO!! The Tooth Fairy was not, as I had so quickly assessed, a Billie? He was an imposter?? He was a Billy?? Never before has my gay-dar failed me so completely, and now... and now... I am single, and in a yearlong lease with a straight male model. Who I'm already pretend-married to most nights. Who already regularly comes downstairs to watch movies and fall asleep with me in my bed?

Oh. NO.

This bait-and-switch is how the Tooth Fairy became Billy Barbizon - after I was already completely settled into the role of his weekday beard wife.

Stay tuned - there's a whole lease-season of episodes left. Heeeeere we go.

(No popcorn in the bed, Billy.)